Dirtbunny.net

No triviality too banal.

Bunny’s New Boyfriend

Bunny used to have, in addition to her spouse and dogs, a special friend. It is possible that he was here before Mr. D. I can’t remember for sure. It just seemed like he was always there and there was no point to trying to have a life that didn’t include him. Last January, the unthinkable happened. I was devastated. I know I couldn’t live without my special friend for long, and that I would have to find a new special friend.
There are lots of inferior candidates out there. If you want to see him in a flashy color, like a prom date in a baby blue tuxedo with ruffled shirt, then you pretty much have to go with The Artisan. He’s flashy, but small and underpowered. You can tell he’s popular with dilettantes and posers because he’s widely available in pretty much any crappy store with a kitchen department. Also, the fact that he’s available in so many colors makes him perfect for the woman who cares more about how things look than about how things are.
My old boyfriend, well they don’t make them exactly like him any more, but the classic Heavy Duty boys are always in fashion. Or they should be. They are getting harder and harder to come by. These days, they assume that if you aren’t going for looks, then you must be going for size, hence, The Professional. But really, what woman needs that much mixer? The extra quart is just kind of….there, not doing anything useful or serving any purpose. I don’t need him to be pretty. I don’t need him to be gigantic. I just want someone who’s there to be himself, doing like he do, day in and day out, complimenting my attributes and combining with Bunny to make a beautiful partnership that will last for decades, and handle biscotti dough.
 

Today, he arrived.
 
Yeah, so we had a monsoon today and now you know for sure that Mr. D never puts his shoes away unless my parents are coming or something. But he rang the doorbell, and I let him in immediately so he wouldn’t get too wet.
And then I helped to ease him out of his coat.
He dresses well, don’t you think? Oh, and also, Mr. D doesn’t put his briefcase away until the weekend, if at all. Here’s a longer range shot:
He was alarmed by the presence of Der Kirbenhund. “Hey, Bunny, I thought it was just going to be you and me. I’m an uninhibited sort of guy, but I only want to be friends with your dog, OK? I like dogs, but I don’t like dogs.” I tensed up, waiting for a cheesy eyebrow waggle or some other off-putting bad behavior, but all he said next was “I hope you’re cool with that.” *le sigh* I explained that Kirby is a Whither Thou Goest I Shall Go sort of dog. We’re a package deal, even though that means I have no privacy and have to shoo him out of the kitchen for his own safety way too often. But that has nothing to do with me and my new boyfriend.
 
As nice as his pants are, I decided to take a peek inside them:
I liked what I saw, so I eased him out of his pants and put him on the table to get a really good look.
Goddamned underlayers. This won’t do. This won’t do at all. He said, “That dog is looking at me in my underlayers. It’s creeping me out.” I said, “Be grateful you don’t have any bodily functions. He likes to look at those too.”
In the end, it was too much to resist. The underlayers had to go.
Oh yessssssss. Check him out. Isn’t he fine? He’s the commercial model. All his guts are made of steel. He’s built to be ridden rough and hard every day, and like it. He’s got enough power to drag a school bus from the bottom of a lake. And he’s got two whisks and two bowls, because he knows that you can’t made a Buche de Noel or a decent chocolate mousse without two whisks and two bowls. In a pinch, my old boyfriend’s old beater and dough hook fit him, and of course all the old toys (like the pasta maker) suit him just fine with no adjustments at all.
He told me that I’ve lived life for too long without a boyfriend who’s rough enough to handle bread and biscotti, and who can go long enough to beat an Italian Meringue until it cools all the way down. *le sigh*
His name is Thor, but when we’re alone, he wants me to call him Big Papi, and you bet I will.
 

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